"This isn't about a dance. This is about documented conduct that calls judgment and stability into question. Let's walk through it." She lays out photos first.
Printouts from that night at Meridian. Kristen wrapped around Evan on the dance floor. My face somewhere in the background, locked and numb. Another shot of her leaning into him at the bar, his hand on her waist.
"These were provided by multiple party attendees," Patricia says, voice even. "They corroborate each other." She slides over a thin stack of papers. "These are written statements from witnesses."
"They describe you as intoxicated, flirtatious, and dismissive of your husband's attempts to leave with you." Kristen's jaw tightens. "People love drama. You can't trust—"
Patricia taps the tablet and turns it so Kristen can see. "And this is from your front door security camera." She hits play. We watch Kristen stumble up the walkway at 1:47 a.m.
We watch the headlights sweep past. Watch Evan get out of the car. The hug. The kiss.
The door. All in cold digital clarity. Color drains from Kristen's face. "I... I don't even remember that," she says quietly.
Patricia doesn't soften. "Whether you remember it or not, it happened. On the marital property, while your daughter was asleep inside." Kristen's eyes flick to me for the first time.
"You set me up," she spits. "You knew the cameras were there." I hold her gaze. "So did you."
"We installed them together after the break-in. I didn't make you do anything. I just made sure I wasn't crazy." She shakes her head, tears starting.
"It was one stupid drunken mistake, Tom. One. We can do counseling. We can fix this."
"You don't blow up a marriage over one kiss." I hear Patricia's pen pause over the pad, but she lets me answer. I lean forward, elbows on the table, voice steady. "It wasn't one mistake."
"It was months of texting another man, dressing up for him, grinding on him in front of my mother, kissing him on our porch while our daughter was inside. The kiss was just the first thing I could put on a screen." She covers her face with her hands. "I was lonely."
"You were never there. I didn't feel like your wife anymore." "I get that," I say. "I own my part."